


A Poem Called Loss

by icandrawamoth



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: (need I say more?), Airplane Crashes, Angst, Character Death, Crying, F/M, Gen, Grief/Mourning, I Made Myself Cry, M/M, Not Happy, Post-Season/Series 01, Sad, brief mention of vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-20
Updated: 2017-05-20
Packaged: 2018-11-02 18:07:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10949910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/icandrawamoth/pseuds/icandrawamoth
Summary: Breaking Headline News Tweeted:An Aeroflot flight from St. Petersburg to Milan has crashed, according to reports. No survivors are expected.While preparing for Worlds, none of the skaters expect to be faced with an unbelievable loss.





	A Poem Called Loss

**Author's Note:**

> For someone who's terrified of flying, I have a weird interest in plane crashes. Awhile back I read about Sabena Flight 548 which crashed with no survivors in 1961 while carrying, among others, the entire US Figure Skating team to Worlds. So this is based on that. That may or may not be considered a highly insensitive thing to inspire a fic, so read or not at your own discretion.
> 
> The title is taken from a quote from one of my favorite movies, Memoirs of a Geisha: "At the temple, there is a poem called 'Loss' carved into the stone. It has three words, but the poet has scratched them out. You cannot read 'Loss,' only feel it."

_**Breaking Headline News Tweeted:** _ _An Aeroflot flight from St. Petersburg to Milan has crashed, according to reports. No survivors are expected._

Phichit almost doesn't see the tweet. With how involved he is in social media, it's not unsual for a certain number of notifications to get lost in the crush. But he just happens to be scrolling down his Instagram feed, getting a feel for where his fellow competitiors are so he can find someone to hang out with when this one comes up. The word _Milan_ catches his eye, because he's sitting in a hotel in the Italian city right now, gearing up for his short program tomorrow at the World Figure Skating Championships.

He opens the tweet and reads the whole thing, eyes widening as he reads it again. _Yuuri,_ he thinks instantly, and his hands shake as he opens an internet window to search for more information. What are the odds? He knows Yuuri and the Russian team are in the air right now, but there must be many flights from St. Petersburg to Milan in a day... He can't find any more information than what he's already seen in the brief tweet, and he throws the phone down on the bed in frustration and turns on the TV.

The only station showing news is, of course, in Italian, a language he doesn't speak, but Phichit watches anxiously as it soon switches from whatever story it had been covering to the crash. There's shaky footage of a burning plane, partially disintegeated from the impact, strewn over a field. Rescue workers are combing the wreckage, but like the tweet had said, it looks hopeless.

The title at the bottom of the screen flashes, changes to one that includes the phrase _Aeroflot Volo 9398_. A flight number? Phichit dives for his phone again and looks it up, remembering Yuuri texting him just before he boarded his flight nearly two hours ago.

The flight number is a match. Phichit's hands fly to his mouth as his eyes dart reflexively back to the screen. It's displaying a graphic now, lines of faces, and Phichit's entire body goes cold: Yuuri. Victor. Georgi. Yuri. Mila Babicheva. Yakov Feltsman. A dozen others. The entire Russian skating team was on that plane.

Phichit barely makes it to the bathroom before he vomits.

He stays there for a long time, waves of chills rushing over him. Soon, he hears his phone ringing, then texts coming in, one after another. Another ring. He can't bring himself to get up. He can't process what's happened, the fact that his best friend and his husband, other competitiors and friends Phichit has known for years, are simply and suddenly just _gone_.

Finally, there's an urgent knock on the hotel room door, and Phichit drags himself to his feet, numbly wiping his face with a towel before he answers. It's Celestino standing there, looking every bit as shocked as Phichit feels.

“You heard, then,” he says roughly, and Phichit nods. Celestino pulls him into his arms, and the skater goes willingly, both of them clinging to each other for long moments there in the hall, both crying again.

Finally, Celestino manges to pull back, wipes his eyes and tries to collect himself. When he speaks, it sounds like he's swallowed glass. “The ISU is deciding what to do. They don't know if they're going to go forward with the competition.”

“It doesn't matter,” Phichit says automatically. In just a few minutes, he's all but forgotten about Worlds. What does it matter now?

“Stay close to your phone,” Celestino says, as if that's anything Phichit has ever needed to be told. “I'll let you know as soon as I know something.” He squeezes Phichit's arm. “I need to go; they've called a bunch of coaches to a meeting. Will you be okay?”

Phichit shrugs, eyes welling up again, because what can he say? Celestino seems to understand, pulling him in for another quick hug before he leaves again.

Running on autopilot now, Phichit drifts back into the room and picks up his phone. He has several missed calls apiece from Guang Hong and Leo as well as numerous texts growing in urgency that beg him to call back. He does his best to bite back another round of sobs as he does so.

* * *

Guang Hong hasn't stopped crying since they got the news, and Leo has an arm wrapped around him, too numb himself to have much an outward reaction at all. When his phone rings, they both startle. “It's Phichit,” Leo murmurs when he picks it up. He squeezes his eyes closed for a moment before answering. “I really don't want to be the one to tell him...” He opens the call. “Phichit...”

“I heard,” comes Phichit's shaky voice. “God, Leo...”

“I know,” Leo says, blinking away tears at the raw emotion in his friend's tone. “Guang Hong and I are in my room if you want to come over.”

“Yeah, I'll be right there.” The line goes dead, and Leo drops the phone, wrapping both arms around his boyfriend again.

Phichit arrives minutes later, and Leo is barely able to tear himself away to let him in. One look at Phichit, and he's wrapping his arms around another grieving friend. “I'm sorry,” he whispers. “I know you knew Yuuri better than any of us.”

Phichit trembles in his arms, sobbing openly. “He was my best friend,” he manages through his tears. “I can't- I don't know what to do.”

“Come inside,” Leo says gently, closing the door and leading him over to the bed.

“Phichit...” Guang Hong whimpers and lurches forward to hug him, too. Leo wraps his arms around both of them, and they cry together.

* * *

Otabek's hands shake as he holds his phone, staring at the last text message he got from Yuri. _about to get on the plane with these idiots. ttyl_

That's the last he'll ever hear from him. He has to keep telling himself. He'll never get another text from Yuri. Never again hear his voice or see his face. The idea so impossible, is so overwhelming, he hasn't even cried yet. He's still trying to process.

A knock at the door shocks him, and he blankly wonders who it could be. He coach just left for some sort of emergency meeting, and he can't imagine anyone else who would show up at his door.

He drags himself across the room to open it, not bothering to check the peephole, and is faced with Seung-gil Lee. "What do you want?" Otabek asks, more roughly than he'd intended.

Seung-gil flinches just a little. He looks past Otabek into the room, then down the hall as if unsure what to do with his gaze. Finally, he murmurs, "I know you were...close to Yuri Plisetsky. I didn't know if anyone else would come to check on you."

"Oh." Otabek deflates suddenly, no idea how to respond. He bites his lip to keep it from trembling.

"Do you want me to leave?"

"No." Otabek opens the door wider and let him in. The news is playing quietly, and they watch together in silence.

When Yuri's face appears again, Otabek finally breaks. Seung-gil wordlessly lays a hand on his shoulder.

* * *

“The only choice I can see is to cancel the competition,” the man at the head of the table says. A flurry of responses comes from the others assembled – coaches, ISU staff, a few skaters. The man raises his hand for quiet. “This is obviously a monumental tragedy. Hundreds of people lost their lives today. Let us be frank: the loss of the Russian team is a blow to international skaing competition as it stands. The field has been shaken. As have all of us. Is it fair to expect world-level performances from these skaters while they're just beginning to process the deaths of their friends?”

The murmuring returns, intensifies. “It's terrible, yes, but my skaters have been traning all year in hopes of reaching this competition!” one female coach puts in. “Cancelling isn't fair to them. Some are retiring. They won't get another chance at this.”

“Life isn't fair,” another rebuts. “Out of respect for the lost, I agree: cancellation is the only option.”

Celestino speaks, suprising himself at how even his voice is. “Clearly the final decision is up to the ISU, but perhaps a vote, to see where we stand?”

The man in charge nods. “Very well. Those in favor of proceeding with the competition?” Perhaps half a dozen hands go up. “Opposed?” The rest. He nods grimly. “I think we've reached a decision. An official announcement will be made within the hour. Stay tunred to official sources for news about a possible memorial of sorts as well. You're all dismissed.”

* * *

"In respect of those lost, the International Skating Union has made the decision to cancel this year's World Championship of Figure Skating. In it's place, taking place at the originally scheduled gala time, will be a memorial service including tribute performances. All skaters with appropriate programs will be considered. Those interested, please apply immediately." Chris looks up from the email, blank tone turning to one of determination. "I'm going to perform."

His coach clearly knew this was going to be his reaction. "We both know none of your programs are appropriate for this event," he says, and the words are sympathetic.

Chris grits his teeth. Josef is right, of course: his short program plays on his sex appeal as usual, and his free and exhibition skates are both far too upbeat. But he's not giving up.

Victor and his team are gone (and, god, does that still hurt to admit), and a performance isn't going to bring them back or even make anyone feel any better, but it's the least he can do. Perhaps he's only trying to distract himself from his own grief, but so be it.

"I'll make something new. We have two days."

"Chris-"

He knows Josef is going to go on about how hard that sort of thing is, how he's worried about him and doesn't want him to push himself right now. They know each well after years working together.

So he heads him off. "I can do it myself, or you can help me."

Josef sighs softly and pulls out a notebook. "What did you have in mind?"

Chris fights down a fresh wave of tears as he sits down and they begin to work.

* * *

The rink is utterly silent but for the announcer solemnly reciting the names of figure skaters, coaches, and staff who were lost in the crash. JJ watches as their pictures flash one by one across the display screen in the center of the arena. It's been fourty-eight hours since he first heard the news, and it still feels surreal, like it hasn't quite sunken in.

It's hard to believe he'll never again skate with the goal of besting Victor Nikiforov. Never again mercilessly tease Yuri Plisetsky while hiding his fondness for the younger boy. Never again see Georgi Popovich or Yuuri Katsuki's names in the rankings alongside his own. Things are going to be so different.

“Babe?” Isabella's hand covers his, which he's curled into a fist without realizing it. “Are you all right?”

JJ turns away. “I'm fine.”

* * *

Sara had already been crying before Chris took the ice, but now it's even worse. Tears run down her face, blurring her makeup and obscuring her vision. She can't even wipe them away for fear of ruining her gloves. Not that she cares about appearances now, but it's plain practicality; every part of this costume was expense. She shouldn't have worn them, but she'd gotten dressed automatically, numbly, doing what she did every time without thinking.

“Sara.” She turns at Mickey's voice. He's standing beside her at the boards, one hand entwined with Emil's, the other holding out a tissue. “Let me?”

She nods and leans forward as he gently dabs her tears away the best he can. “Better?”

“Yes, thank you,” she manages.

Her brother's eyes are misty, too, as he cups her cheek. “Just do the best you can, okay? You know they'd appreciate it, whatever happens.”

She nods, eyes welling again, and Mickey draws her into a hug. Emil wraps his arms around the both of them, and they stand there together for long moments, each of them drawing comfort and strength from the others.

Then there's a sound from the ice as Chris exits, murmuring, “You're up, Crispino.” She can see his shoulders shaking as he slips on his skate guards and walks away.

Sara does her best to gather herself as she steps onto the ice and skates toward the center. She's performed hundreds of times, in every state of emotion. She's supposed to know how to push it aside. She scans the stands for familiar faces to steady herself as she often does – and it's like a shot to the heart when she reazlies she's looking for Mila, and she isn't there.

Sara is crying again before she can do anything about it, then the music is playing, and she lets it take her, giving in instead of pushing her feelings away. It's a toned-down version of her free skate – something different than usual this year, a lingering, mournful classical piece. In the beginning, to reach the mood of loss it suggested, she'd imagined her life without Mickey. That had quickly become too painful, though, and she'd moved on to other thoughts, other more nebulous inspirations. Now she doubts she'll ever skate it again without thinking of her Russian friends. Will she ever be able to skate it in competition again at all with this memory, this fresh grief attached to it?

She reaches her end pose somehow, and the audience claps, far more subdued than she's ever heard them. She doesn't greet them before leaving the ice; now isn't the time for that.

Mickey is waiting with another hug when she reaches the gate, and she falls into it gratefully. “That was beautiful,” he murmurs, tears plain in his voice.

 _If only something beautiful could actually help at a time like this,_ she thinks.

**Author's Note:**

> For extra fun, tell me which section/whose reaction you found the most heartbreaking? ;) For me, I think it's Otabek and Seung-gil, though JJ is up there, too...


End file.
